The Gift of Free Will

Up to her elbows sweet Harmony stood
In silver and rawhide and wire and wood
Till all of the voices that music commands
Sang for sheer joy at the touch of her hands,
Warm as the sunlight and fair as the moon
And each to the others precisely in tune
Till Discord drew near, with a moment to kill
To beg for her fav'rite the gift of free will.

Cousin, your creatures are fitting to
serve,
Approaching the honor you plainly deserve
Said Discord as Harmony's trickster she played
For only the maker could mar what was made--
Yet one might more poignantly speak to the ears
More surely to move you to laughter or tears
That chose to do good when it might have done ill,
That instrument given the gift of free will

Harmony, trusting, too slow to know
fear,
Smiled, and said to the fiddle, "come here."
"Don't give me this burden!", the fiddle did plead,
But Discord insisted; at last it agreed.
T'was laid on the fiddle and all of its kin,
The bass and the cello, the proud violin
Sharp the betrayal and bitter the pill,
That laid on the fiddle the gift of free will.

And this is the reason the fiddle, we
find
Has been ever after of contrary mind
And laden with Discord's and Harmony's boon
More easy than any to play out of tune
You pick it up not knowing how it will speak
If it likes not the weather it won't even squeak
Too windy, too sunny, too rainy, too chill
The fiddle is rich in the gift of free will.

Rebellion has spread to infect other
things,
The horns and the woodwinds, the rest of the strings,
Even the drums as they thunder and dance
Will play out of tune if you give them a chance
So why do we listen, while mourning the fall
Why do we care for the fiddle at all?
It seems that a player of passion and skill
Can turn to a blessing the gift of free will.